


Blood That Binds

by picklebridge



Series: Lineage [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (mentioned) - Freeform, Angst, Angst and Feels, Area dwarf cannot catch a break, Battle of Azanulbizar, Durin Family Feels, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26112040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picklebridge/pseuds/picklebridge
Summary: There is only one way this ever goes for the line of Durin. They have fled across mountains and over plains, they have starved and fought and bled dry to start again, and they are still not safe from this blight.Or: Thorin sits at the bedside of his fallen nephew and prays.
Relationships: Dís & Fíli & Kíli & Thorin Oakenshield, Fíli & Kíli & Thorin Oakenshield, Fíli & Thorin Oakenshield
Series: Lineage [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895899
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	Blood That Binds

**Author's Note:**

> In the first part Fíli gets injured in the line of duty for the first time, and this is his family dealing with the fallout. It will definitely make more sense if you read that first, but it's not necessary!
> 
> This was supposed to have had a second, less angstier part where Fíli wakes up and Thorin gets to be happy for at least five seconds of his damn life, but it's been SO LONG since I wrote this and I don't have a clue whether I'll ever go back to it. Seemed a shame to let an acceptable first part waste away on my hard drive, so I thought I'd just whack it up here, and maybe one day I'll feel like writing the second bit and add another chapter.

Thorin sits next to the small bed, and the even smaller figure within it, and feels himself age. It has been five hours. Five, immeasurably long hours since Dís came running into his forge, blood on her face and despair in her eyes. Five hours since he felt that terrible, familiar dread sink through him like stone.

Oín has just finished smearing poultices over the neat stitches that stand out against Fíli’s narrow shoulder like a terrible necklace knocked awry. It has long since been washed away, but Thorin is still trapped within that moment – can still hear Kíli’s scream, can still feel the lurch of his heart as suddenly, he had known what he would find beneath the trees. He can still feel his nephew’s blood on his hands, see the way it glittered in the snow.

“Can you hold the bandage flat for me, lad?” Oín asks softly. Usually it makes him scowl when his old healer does this – calls him ‘lad’ as if Thorin is still the young princeling who may as well have burnt to ashes in the ruins of Erebor – but right now he is grateful to be handled like precious metal. Like he might break.

He reaches out a hand and feels it shake; takes a deep breath and steels himself, lays it flat on Fíli’s skin. His nephew is burning, his skin translucent. Thorin can remember holding him just after he was born, when his skin was still damp and red, his cheeks still smooth. How hope had bloomed so powerfully in his lungs as he cradled that little life in his arms, renewal after so much loss. And now it might already burn out.

Why has he been doomed to lose everyone that he loves?

He helps Oín prop Fíli upwards, still able to cradle his golden head in one palm. Fíli huffs and his brow wrinkles, but he does not wake. He is still so small. Thorin smooths his thumb against his cheek as with his other hand he steadies the stark bandage that Oín has started winding, length by length around his chest. Thorin has to try hard not to see it as a shroud.

He must not bury him yet, must not invite Mahal to take him.

When they lay him back down, Thorin lets his hand linger on Fíli’s chest to feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat. A caged bird still singing.

“There now,” Oín says, washing off his hands in the basin of steaming water on the bedstand. “Lad will have some pretty scars when all is said and done, but I’m hopeful he’ll heal just fine.”

Thorin feels a knot inside him loosen a little, lets out a long, pent-up breath.

“He will live?”

Oín snorts. “I’d like to see Mahal try to stop him. He’s got your stubborn head on his shoulders Thorin, just like every other member of your line before you.”

“And a lot of good it did them.” Thorin can’t help the thought that seeps out from the darkest part of him, the festering wound at his core that he has to work every day to suppress.

Oín smiles, and Thorin hates the pity he can see in it.

“He’s going to be fine, Thorin.” He gathers the strip of bandage he has left, then stacks his jars into his satchel. The only thing he ever shows more care towards is his patients. “Anything worries you, you know where to find me. Night or day, I’ll come.”

Thorin sighs and sags, hopes the gratitude shows on his face. “Thank you, Oín.”

Oín claps a hand on his shoulder before he leaves. Then Thorin is left to his vigil, waiting for Dís to bring Kíli home. His youngest nephew had been hysterical when all the wolves had been slain and they’d gotten him out of the tree the children had used for refuge. Between the chaos of Oín trying to save Fíli’s life and the need to stop Kíli from doing himself injury, it had been better that Dís leave with him. Thorin knows that when he sleeps, he will hear those screams again.

He sinks down into the nearest chair and buries his face in his hands, grief cresting over him in one terrible wave. The fear he is still holding in his belly guts him, strangles him, and he is in several places at once. On the battle field of Azanulbizar, cradling Frerin’s lifeless body, seeing his grandfather fall. On the steps of Erebor, realising their grandmother has fallen behind. He is staring at the mouth of a collapsed mine shaft, wondering how he will face Dís this time, when he cannot bring her husband home.

There is only one way this ever goes for the line of Durin. They have fled across mountains and over plains, they have starved and fought and bled dry to start again, and they are still not safe from this _blight_.

He does not think he can do this again.

Thorin’s face is wet when he removes his hands. He clutches little Fíli’s in his own, presses his face against that small palm, and prays.


End file.
